


Fast As I Can

by Enfilade



Series: On My Dark and Lonely Side [10]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alt-Mode Sexual Interfacing, Loving Evil Partnership, M/M, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-11-18 01:09:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18110243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: Tarn learns the art of compromise.  He may not be entirely ready to take off his mask or accept his lover's creature mode, but he's managed to find some middle ground.





	1. The Emperor's Throne

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in advance of the Duet series, so it's not perfectly in continuity relationship-wise, but it's close. 
> 
> I couldn't be at TFCon LA so I decided to post this instead and celebrate Transformers at home.

Chapter One: The Emperor’s Throne 

One of these days Tarn would really have to stop being surprised by Deathsaurus, but today would not be that day. 

It was his own fault, he supposed, for once again making assumptions. He’d thought Deathsaurus and his crew were nothing more than pirates, attacking whatever helpless ships or worlds they happened to come across. He’d never imagined that Deathsaurus had actual diplomatic relationships with some of the Rim governments—including a number of organic species. 

Tarn had been caught entirely off guard when Deathsaurus had scheduled a diplomatic meeting with three different alien governments who laid claim to the part of space the Warworld wished to pass through. They needed to touch base, Deathsaurus said, regarding the cyberformed planet where Deathsaurus kept a supply depot. There was a nominal garrison of Decepticons who lived on that world, harvesting fuel that the Warworld would not have to pay for. Those Decepticons were also Deathsaurus’s people, and they needed their Lord to help them finalize some business with their neighbours. 

Tarn had tried to conceal his surprise when Deathsaurus had told him about his day’s plans, but from the slowly spreading grin on the warlord’s face, Tarn guessed that Deathsaurus had sensed it anyway. Truly, it was _infuriating_. What was the good of his mask if Deathsaurus could read his emotions despite it? 

Deathsaurus had taken Tarn’s hands in his own when he gently suggested that perhaps the presence of the Decepticon Justice Division might complicate the day’s negotiations. Maybe Tarn and his team could enjoy some down time? 

There was no down time for _Tarn_ —the Decepticon Empire was not going to administrate itself, and he did not trust his documents to Deathsaurus’s enigma of a filing system—but he had given his team the day off, while he stayed in his office on the _Peaceful Tyranny_ and brooded. Of _course_ Deathsaurus had made alliances. Deathsaurus had been cut off from Cybertron when he’d walked out on Megatron. Of course he’d sought out other supply lines, and made deals with other Rim species. Protection in exchange for goods, or mutual attacks on mutual enemies. Cybertronians weren’t the only beings who had issues with the Galactic Council. 

_You underestimated him._

_He’s not just his own commander. He leads his own government. He’s got his own society. Cybertron could fall in flames and it would mean nothing to the Warworld. They’re…_

Tarn struggled for a word. _Colony_ implied ties to the homeworld that Deathsaurus had intentionally sundered. _City-state_ wasn’t right either. 

_Sovereign nation_ came close. 

Yes, they were their own people, with Deathsaurus as their leader. Then Tarn had come along and tried to bring them under his control, as though they were nothing more than an armoury of blunt-force instruments for Tarn to use against Megatron. It made Tarn wonder why Deathsaurus put up with him. 

_Because his_ nation _is small and poor, even if it’s proud and well-armed. You’ve proved yourself threat enough to them over the years that Deathsaurus was willing to deal with you in exchange for the lives of his people._

_Isn’t that precisely the reason you chose to deal with Deathsaurus instead of Trannis? Trannis and his Dynasty of the Sun have everything they need. They spend their time barricaded in their planetary system, rarely venturing outside its borders, rotting in their own decadence. Trannis wouldn’t care how many of his supplicants you killed in an attempt to get to him. He’s never cared about anything other than himself._

_Assumptions, again. You thought Deathsaurus was the weaker of the two. Well, that_ weakness _—those bonds with his crew—they’re what made him strong. They’re why he’s made these diplomatic alliances. Why he transformed himself from a warrior into a warlord, and then from a warlord into an…an Emperor._

Tarn felt his knees go weak. They always did, every time he thought about Deathsaurus in command. 

Tarn was starting to suspect that he’d made a horrible mistake. He’d showed up here on the Warworld intending to make Deathsaurus his field marshal and Deathsaurus’s army his cudgel. But Tarn was getting a terrible feeling that he wasn’t fit to be Emperor in Megatron’s absence. 

Tarn knew he didn’t have the skills to make the alliances that Deathsaurus had made. He could forge his small unit into a weapon for his master, but he couldn’t inspire a mass of dissatisfied mechs to do something remarkable…like rise up and steal a Warworld. Tarn’s talents were in administration and enforcement. He had no experience in deal-making, negotiating, compromise. Or in knowing when to walk away. Rebellion was not in his nature. 

And what he really wanted in life was to serve his Lord. 

That Lord should have been Megatron, but with every passing day the hope of Megatron returning to his senses, and to command of the Decepticons, grew fainter. Tarn still wasn’t sure what he’d do when he caught up to Megatron. Punish him…or try to save him? 

But now, another idea niggled its way into Tarn’s brain. 

_Why go chasing after the Emperor who abandoned you when you have another Emperor right here?_

Tarn locked that thought down, hard. There was still a millennia’s worth of bad blood between the DJD and the Warworld crew; there was no guarantee Deathsaurus and his people wouldn’t tear Tarn and his unit apart if they thought they could get away with it. Tarn had a duty to bring Megatron to justice, and he couldn’t bungle it by offering himself up to a young upstart. 

No matter how attractive that upstart had turned out to be. 

# 

Tarn did not get as much work accomplished as he’d hoped. His own fault, really. He kept losing focus, fantasizing about Deathsaurus. 

He wished he’d been able to see Deathsaurus negotiating with the alien representatives. He imagined what that scenario would look like. Deathsaurus at the head of a conference table, commanding the room with his presence. How exciting it would be to watch a young king in the making. As Megatron had been once, so long ago, when a mech named Glitch went to see him speak in the pits of Kaon. 

But Tarn didn’t want to think about Megatron, so he replayed his memories of the game he and Deathsaurus had played to drive thoughts of Megatron out of his head. The game of virtuoso and patron. Oh, and the time after combat when he’d scrubbed Deathsaurus clean in his washracks, spoiling his battle-tested warrior with decadent luxury. Those thoughts were _very_ distracting. So distracting they stirred up Tarn’s appetite for an encore. 

Tarn’s frame crackled with building charge. He wondered how tired Deathsaurus would be after the negotiations concluded. Surely not so tired that he wouldn’t be willing to take Tarn to his berth… 

Tarn wondered if he might coax Deathsaurus to take the lead tonight. Tarn could claim he was bored and in the mood for a surprise. He wouldn’t need to admit that in his head he would be imagining that Deathsaurus had wrested authority from him. He wouldn’t need to confess his shameful secret—a desire unfitting of the Decepticon Emperor. 

Finally, Tarn gave up on the hope of getting any more work done. He left his quarters and checked in on the bridge, where Lyzack was giving the diplomatic shuttles permission to depart Warworld airspace. Good. The meeting was over. 

Tarn could have contacted Deathsaurus on his comm link, but such a thing didn’t play into the fantasy that was building steadily in his mind. A servant did not summon a master. No, Tarn would go in search of Deathsaurus, and when they crossed paths he would pretend it had been an accident. If he was lucky, his Lord would choose to spend some time _unwinding_ with a convenient and willing servant. Tarn was willing to flirt as much as it took to make that happen. 

Already Tarn felt his frame trembling with arousal. He wondered if Deathsaurus would be willing to play patron and virtuoso again. Moisture gathered in his valve. 

Tarn should be ashamed of finding the idea of submitting to his field marshal so erotic, and he _would_ , but not now. Later he might feel guilty for acting so deferential and so needy around someone he was supposed to command. Right now, though, he craved Deathsaurus the way he’d once craved a transformation binge, and he would do anything… _anything_ …if only Deathsaurus would indulge him. 

He was so caught up in his fantasies that he almost didn’t realize that his presence in this part of the Warworld might pose a problem. Tarn hesitated in the nick of time, just as he saw a group of aliens passing by at the end of the corridor. He’d almost forgotten about the DJD’s reputation. Any deals Deathsaurus had made might be rendered null and void at the sight of Tarn’s arrival. The aliens would get entirely the wrong idea about why Tarn was here. 

Tarn sighed and realized his comm link would be a better idea after all. He stepped into a side corridor, intending to message Deathsaurus, only to see Deathsaurus himself stepping out of a room that Tarn had never been in. Truth be told, Tarn wasn’t sure he’d explored this part of the Warworld yet. 

Deathsaurus’s optics landed on Tarn and his whole frame seemed to light up. His wings lifted. His biolights sparkled. The corners of his mouth lifted, one moreso than the other, into a lopsided smile. Tarn found it terribly endearing. It made his spark feel…strange. Warm. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Deathsaurus said as he hastened over to Tarn. 

Tarn felt uncharacteristically timid, even though he was happy to see Deathsaurus. “I, ah, I was curious about your visitors. Though I’ve since realized perhaps my presence would complicate your negotiations.” His valve tingled hungrily, bolstering his nerve, but not enough to break through the sudden feeling of awkwardness. It was definitely more of a Damus feeling than a Tarn feeling. He hadn’t felt like this in a very long time. Still, he could not make it go away. “I’m sorry, you’re probably busy.” 

“Actually, we just finished up.” Deathsaurus flashed a fanged grin. “If you’re not here for business, I could probably be persuaded to consider _pleasure_.” 

Tarn felt his fuel pump speed up. “Should I…do I need to conceal myself until your guests depart?” 

Deathsaurus stepped forward, taking Tarn’s hands in his own. “Fortunately, they’re already en route back to their homes, satisfied with our mutual trade and defense.” 

“You _trade_ with them.” 

Deathsaurus released Tarn’s hands and answered back in a similar tone, “If I left enough mechs to adequately defend the planet, I’d lose half my crew. So, yes, I trade with the aliens. We share defense of all our worlds. We give them some of our raw materials, and they give us some of their weapons.” 

“ _Their_ weapons.” 

“Well, it violates the Tyrest Accord if we do it the other way around.” Deathsaurus’s grin showed that he was very pleased with himself. “We may also let them manufacture some simple parts and do some, ah, after-market mods to turn those parts into weapons. But that’s nothing Tyrest needs to know about.” Deathsaurus stepped out of the doorway and palmed the switch to close it, and suddenly Tarn’s curiosity overwhelmed him. 

Tarn reached out his hand and stopped the door from closing. He stretched up to look over Deathsaurus’s shoulder. Deathsaurus’s frame still blocked the doorway. It was as though wanted to impede Tarn’s view. 

Tarn caught a glimpse of purple banners before Deathsaurus flared his wings, obstructing Tarn’s view completely. And, in so doing, making his obstruction obvious. 

Tarn glared up at Deathsaurus. “I want to see.” 

“The room’s empty.” 

“Then you won’t care if I go in it.” Tarn laid a hand on Deathsaurus’s forearm. 

“There’s nothing for you in there.” Deathsaurus lowered his head to meet Tarn forehead-to-forehead. 

Now Tarn was more convinced than ever that Deathsaurus was keeping secrets. “I’ll be the judge of that…or don’t you trust your own ally?” He let just a trickle of his power seep into his voice, just enough to feel like sandpaper on the edge of Deathsaurus’s hearing. 

Deathsaurus folded his wings and rolled all four optics. “Oh, _fine_ , if it means that much to you.” His body language and tone suggested exasperation more than fear as he stood aside to allow Tarn admittance. 

Tarn raised an optic ridge. The _usual_ responses that most people had to Tarn’s inquiries were either violence—a desperate attempt to drive him off by force—or grovelling, some variation on _I can explain_ or _you need to understand_ or, most tedious of all, _it was like that when I got here and I had nothing to do with it._ But Deathsaurus, as usual, was not responding in a way Tarn would expect. 

Deathsaurus leaned against the doorframe, his palm plastered over three of his four optics. He seemed neither hostile nor agitated. His demeanour was that of someone who’d taken a guest to a fancy restaurant and just discovered that the evening’s selections were common, uninspired engex blends. 

_Embarrassment?_

It was Deathsaurus, so that emotion, whatever it was, was likely genuine. Curiosity piqued, Tarn stepped inside. 

And gasped. 

Yes, he’d seen correctly. Purple banners on the walls, just like the banners in the old days of the Iaconian Senate, except these were emblazoned in the center with huge Decepticon insignia. And it wasn’t a conference room. It was a _throne room_. 

The throne itself was wrought of polished metal filigree studded with jewels, and its back had been sculpted into an ornate Decepticon shield. The throne crowned a dais almost as tall as Tarn himself, so that anyone in the room would have to look up to see Deathsaurus seated in it. There were chairs and tables of different sizes scattered between Tarn and the dais, which Tarn guessed were for the alien delegates. He gave them little notice. He was more interested in the braziers on either side of the dais, which still glowed with coals, and the sconces which cast dramatic shadows across the room. The entire layout of the room had been calculated to impress its occupants with the power, majesty, and authority of the Decepticon Empire—and the Emperor who sat on the throne. 

Tarn felt his knees go weak. _Megatron would not be out of place on such a throne_. 

Immediately he hated himself for the thought. Megatron had renounced his Empire and his Cause. Megatron was no longer worthy to rule. 

Deathsaurus, on the other hand… 

Deathsaurus spoke, and it sounded as though he were very close to Tarn’s back. His tone was light, teasing almost, but it crackled with an undercurrent of tension. “Has anyone ever been put on the List for blasphemy?” 

“Oh, Deathsaurus,” Tarn breathed. “Oh Deathsaurus, it’s not blasphemous if it’s true.” 

Deathsaurus slipped to the side so the door could close. He locked it behind him. Tarn turned towards him and saw Deathsaurus scratching the finials on his helmet. It was a self-conscious gesture. His expression was far more sheepish than regal. 

Yes, Deathsaurus had earned it. For whatever reason, he’d wanted a throne, so he’d simply gone out and gotten himself one. 

_The self-crowned king._

But no sooner had Tarn come up with that thought then he realized its incongruence. Deathsaurus was not the kind of person to boast about himself, nor to show off for the sake of impressing others. He let his actions speak for themselves and he put little stock in what people thought of him. Deathsaurus was embarrassed that Tarn had seen this room and its expression of power and grandeur. 

“Just when I think I understand you,” Tarn mused, “you have to do something like this.” 

Deathsaurus’s mouth quirked up in a familiar crooked smile. His optics glittered. “I didn’t build this room to mess with _you_ ,” he said, and it was the only clue Tarn needed. Deathsaurus had built this room as a means to an end. To mess with someone, as he put it. 

“You did it for the benefit of the aliens you deal with,” Tarn guessed. 

Deathsaurus stretched out his wings and walked forward. “Yes. It’s easier to build an alliance with a species that respects and fears us. I admit there’s also a certain utility when it comes to unit discipline. Coming here to kneel before the throne—it’s how my crew know they’ve messed up. I don’t like to pull rank but I can when the situation warrants.” 

_Pull rank on me. Please._ Tarn didn’t dare say _that_ out loud. He followed at Deathsaurus’s side and said nothing. 

“It’s also useful to have a room like this for formal occasions. Conjunx endura ceremonies, funerals and the like.” Deathsaurus glanced back over his shoulder as he leapt up onto the dais. “I’ve probably done it all wrong. Wrong colours, or wrong layout, or clashing styles…” 

Tarn suddenly realized that Deathsaurus thought Tarn wouldn’t approve of his throne room. Deathsaurus had done this sort of thing in conversation before…practically _inviting_ Tarn to say something negative. 

Tarn wondered why Deathsaurus always wanted to pick fights. Was it the fight itself that Deathsaurus liked, or did Deathsaurus become anxious at the thought of someone thinking thoughts they didn’t share? Did concealing one’s misgivings count as _keeping secrets_ to a warlord who kept no secrets from his crew? 

Tarn thought he might be onto something there, but in the meantime he needed to reassure Deathsaurus. “It, ah, it suits you.” 

Deathsaurus wheeled around, with surprise plain to see on his features. 

“Come now,” Tarn chided gently as he joined Deathsaurus on the dais, “nobody who knows you would ever believe that you cared the slightest bit about traditional ideas of décor. I’m certain you decorated this room exactly how you pleased and _that_ , in my opinion, shows who is truly in charge here.” 

Deathsaurus gave Tarn a crooked smile. Then he laid his hand on the armrest of the throne. For the next few moments he stood very still, saying nothing, watching Tarn watching him. 

Tarn’s instincts prickled the nape of his neck. The two warlords remained frozen in tableau as Tarn tried to understand what his subconscious was attempting to tell him. 

Then Deathsaurus half-bowed. “Would you like to have a seat?” he inquired, but his upper optics were hard and cold and his smile was even on both sides. 

_Fake_ . 

Deathsaurus was doing his best to defer to his superior the way he ought to, but Tarn sensed that he despised every moment of it. Tarn swore he could hear the Warworld commander’s engine snarling in protest. Tarn had to make a choice: accept the social graces that were his due, or encourage his ally…his _lover_ …to be honest. 

“I appreciate the gesture,” Tarn said smoothly, “but I have to decline.” He paused, considering, and decided to take a page from Deathsaurus’s playbook. “Also, I’m afraid to say you’re a terrible actor.” 

Deathsaurus’s optics flashed as he straightened up from his bow. 

“You’re being polite and you hate it,” Tarn said bluntly. It felt strange to speak his mind so plainly and gracelessly, but he was curious how Deathsaurus would react to his own technique reflecting back at him. “You don’t want to bow to me in your own throne room, on your own ship. Would it comfort you if I confessed I’m already well aware that my voice is my only advantage over you in a fight? I fully recognize that if I bully you around, you’ll eventually bite.” 

_Why_ , though? Deathsaurus didn’t need other’s opinions to boost his ego, nor was he interested in power for its own sake. Why was having a Lord above him such anathema? 

_Particularly when I could only wish I were so fortunate as to have an Emperor to serve._

Tarn suspected it wasn’t just Megatron’s disregard for the welfare of Deathsaurus’s crew that had given Deathsaurus this hatred of authority figures. Tarn was sure Deathsaurus’s attitude problem had already been entrenched long before Megatron gave the orders that pushed Deathsaurus to desert. He would have needed this rage, this defiance, to plot to steal a Warworld and have the nerve to carry his plan through. 

_So where did he get it?_

Tarn felt his fuel tank chill, because he’d seen that kind of rage before. There had been targets aplenty who’d raged at the DJD when Tarn and his team arrived to judge them. Fury was so often a mask for fear. 

_He’s afraid._

Tarn knew, with sudden certainty, that somewhere in Deathsaurus’s past had been a learning experience probably all too common for MTOs. They came online into war, powerless and confused, and if they survived the initial salvos they came to discover, and resent, the people who’d put them in the line of fire. 

For most MTOs, a good dose of fear kept them in line. It was a large part of why the DJD had been created when the Decepticon Empire was already at its peak. Megatron had needed a cudgel to keep the made-to-order soldiers obedient. 

But there were always outliers, and Deathsaurus was the sort of person whose instinctive response to a threat was to fight. Tarn reminded himself that fighting didn’t always mean punching, and for all Deathsaurus was a significant physical force, it was his cunning mind that was the most dangerous. 

Tarn remembered that Kaon had told him that Deathsaurus’s serial number wasn’t really his, that it was stolen from another MTO named Scimitar. Kaon had not been able to figure out who Deathsaurus had been before the identity theft. Where he had come from. But Deathsaurus had stolen Scimitar’s command long before he’d stolen the Warworld. 

And Tarn knew that in any ordinary circumstances, he’d be pleased that Deathsaurus was afraid of him. It was the proper response to the presence of the leader of the DJD. 

But suddenly Tarn didn’t want that at all. 

_I don’t want my lover to fear me._

_I don’t want him to hate me._

Tarn asked himself what he _did_ want. Once he answered that question, his next step became obvious. 

“Is that door locked?” Tarn asked, changing the subject. 

Deathsaurus watched him for a moment more with a wary gaze, and then he answered. “No. But it could be. Why?” 

Tarn felt awkward, shy even, but what was a little awkwardness next to the risk of a lover who secretly hated and feared him? “Do you want to…to play?” His voice caught as he spoke the words. 

Deathsaurus raised his left optic ridge. “That depends,” the Warworld commander said guardedly, “on what game you have in mind.” 

Tarn leaned closer. “You see, I think that throne belongs to my czar in onyx.” 

Deathsaurus’s right optic ridge lifted to match the left. His mouth opened in a gasp that quickly rallied itself into a grin. He reached out to the arm of the throne, where he grasped a topaz jewel and rotated it to the left. Tarn heard the door behind him lock with a thunk. Deathsaurus kept turning and another thunk echoed from behind the throne. 

“What was that?” Tarn asked. 

“Back door.” Deathsaurus’s smile was genuine now, and very hungry-looking. “You think I’d let myself be cornered in a room with only one exit?” He swaggered…no, _stalked_ …to the front of the throne and took a seat, furling his wings until they framed the ornate carving on the back of the throne. 

Tarn felt his mouth water. Deathsaurus was all arrogance and defiance, not a born ruler coming to claim what was his due, but an interloper ready to take what he wanted from anyone who dared try to deny him. It was a good look. A very, _very_ good look. Tarn might have wished he had been born into the upper classes, a Vosian or even a Praxan, but he had to admit that rebels were very much his type. Particularly the rough ones. 

_No, I won’t think about Megatron._

Not when Deathsaurus was lounging on that throne and grinning at him so wickedly. 

“Come to me, my virtuoso,” Deathsaurus purred. 

Tarn’s knees nearly gave out. 

Tarn staggered to the front of the throne where he stood before his Lord. Guilt nagged at him for daring to compare Deathsaurus and Megatron. He didn’t deserve his czar’s good regard. He deserved punishment. He had to beg forgiveness. He had to…he had to do something to redeem himself. 

Fear sliced through his spark. 

There was one thing he’d never dared to do before. 

_And for good reason_ , Tarn argued, but his mind latched onto the idea. 

_Deathsaurus will like it._

_And you_ should _pay for what you’ve done. Look at you. Frightening your own courtmate. Comparing him to Megatron._

Tarn’s logic circuits attempted to flag to his attention the fact that nowhere in his memory banks was any proof that he and Deathsaurus were courtmates. Or anything else beyond political allies who liked to frag one another’s bolts off. 

His emotions, on the other hand, ran rampant through his processor. His logic circuits really had no chance of success against the cavalcade of raw sensation. 

Tarn’s knees threatened to fold again. 

This time, he let them. 


	2. The Emperor's Sacrifice

Chapter Two: The Emperor’s Sacrifice 

One of these days Deathsaurus would really have to stop being surprised by Tarn, but today would not be that day. 

Deathsaurus had fond memories of the game of virtuoso and patron, but surely that had been nothing more than an idle amusement. One of Tarn’s hedonistic thrills. Deathsaurus would not make the mistake of confusing fiction and fact. 

Surely Tarn had played the virtuoso because he was the better singer, and also better versed in what virtuosos and patrons actually did with one another. All Deathsaurus had needed to do for the patron role was act imperious and let Tarn do all the work. Which was _delightful_ , but Deathsaurus hadn’t dared think the game was about anything more than idle fun and a little curiosity. 

Then Deathsaurus recalled their recent post-combat celebration. The one where Tarn had insisted on dragging Deathsaurus into his washracks and cleaning him thoroughly before allowing him to pursue the customary post-battle fragging. At first Tarn had been very condescending about it, and Deathsaurus had almost balked. He was grateful now he’d held his tongue. If he’d protested, he’d have missed the delightful feeling of being scrubbed all over by his very attentive associate. 

He’d hated himself for pointing out that he was fully capable of washing himself. 

And he’d felt an electric current shooting down his spine when Tarn replied, _I know. But I want to do it for you. Is that so wrong?_

Wrong for an Emperor, maybe. But Deathsaurus had made a habit out of taking what he could get and seeing how far he could press his luck. It turned out he could press it very far indeed. 

But this? 

Deathsaurus had never in his wildest fantasies imagined Tarn kneeling before him while he sat on his throne. It made his valve tingle to see it now. Tarn, the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division, on his knees, his head bowed, his powerful frame humbled to serve his czar in onyx. 

Even staring down at Tarn, Deathsaurus felt as though he wasn’t _allowed_ to think about mastering his ally for his pleasure. Wasn’t the very idea degrading? Except that Tarn did not look as though he felt degraded in the slightest. Deathsaurus could hear Tarn’s engines thrumming as he reached up and rubbed Deathsaurus’s inner thighs. Deathsaurus inhaled deeply and smelled the heady aroma of Tarn’s arousal. He couldn’t smell either the oily smoulder of resentment or the sour tang of fear. 

Evidently Deathsaurus didn’t need to worry about Tarn feeling coerced or degraded or otherwise mistreated. After all, this had been Tarn’s idea. 

Deathsaurus’s conscience was satisfied that this concept was _allowable_. If it was not permitted under any other set of laws—Cybertronian propriety, for example, or the Decepticon chain of command, or anyone who might not approve of an uppity animal like Deathsaurus receiving such worship from a fearsome high-ranking officer like Tarn of the DJD—well, Deathsaurus did not care in the slightest. 

No, if Tarn actually _wanted_ to kneel before him—and it was Tarn’s idea that Deathsaurus occupy the throne in the first place—if Tarn was so enthusiastic about this situation, then Deathsaurus would not complain. He could accept that he and Tarn were different people and while he would hate it if Tarn tried to put him on his knees, he was willing to believe that Tarn might view the situation differently. After all, Tarn had taken that position of his own free will. Deathsaurus didn’t understand the appeal, but he didn’t need to know what Tarn was getting out of this game in order to enjoy his role in it. 

Tarn’s hands made slow, steady circles on Deathsaurus’s thighs, sliding ever upwards. Deathsaurus wondered if he should pop the catch on the panel that covered his valve or let Tarn do it. He decided that if they were playing power fantasies, he’d let Tarn work for it. 

Tarn’s right hand came to rest on the panel over Deathsaurus’s spike. 

Oh. Right. Deathsaurus kept forgetting that Cybertron had a perverse fixation with spikes. Out here on the Rim it would be taken for granted that a subordinate partner was expected to pleasure his Lord’s valve. 

Fortunately, Deathsaurus was unashamedly kinky by Rim standards and quite willing to break the social norms from time to time. If this was what Tarn wanted, Deathsaurus was happy to give it to him. 

“Proceed,” Deathsaurus said smoothly. Tarn wasted no time in opening Deathsaurus’s panel. Deathsaurus didn’t think it would take his spike long to pressurize. His hungry valve clenched on nothingness, and Deathsaurus gritted his teeth, willing his frame to adjust to a different sort of arousal. 

Then Tarn did something utterly unexpected. 

His left hand raised to his face, fingers splaying out across the mask, and in one smooth movement, lifted the mask up. 

Not _off_. Deathsaurus still had the presence of mind to tell the difference. The mask came to rest on Tarn’s forehead, sitting on an angle. The eyeholes showed nothing but metal and, on Tarn’s left, a suggestion of scarring above the optic ridge. The angled V of the lower mask obscured Tarn’s lips. Deathsaurus knew he had lips—he’d seen them through the slit of the mask. Had licked them, even. If Tarn had a nose—and of that, Deathsaurus was less certain—but if he did, the angle of the mask hid that, too. 

Deathsaurus was so shocked at the idea of Tarn opening his mask that it took a moment before his brain asked the logical question: what was Tarn opening it _for_? 

Tarn’s right hand popped the catch on Deathsaurus’s spike cover. 

Deathsaurus’s brain came up with a _very exciting_ idea of what Tarn might have opened his mask for. 

Deathsaurus’s logic circuits kicked into gear, warning him not to get his hopes up. He’d never had any indication that Tarn was in any way interested in that sort of thing. Deathsaurus had always been a believer in _proceeding with caution_. 

But Tarn apparently had no interest in being cautious tonight. 

The feared commander of the Decepticon Justice Division leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the head of Deathsaurus’s spike. 

Deathsaurus couldn’t see those plush lips making contact with the sensitive tip of his spike. Tarn’s mask jutted forward like a visor, obscuring Deathsaurus’s view. Deathsaurus could see only the base of his own spike and that damnable mask. He could only feel Tarn’s kiss. Could he _ever._

“My czar?” Tarn murmured, and Deathsaurus saw stars as he felt Tarn’s warm breath on his spike. “May I?” 

_Dear Fortune save me._

There was only one conceivable answer, and Deathsaurus steeled his nerves to keep his voice steady when he answered. “Yes, you may.” 

Deathsaurus felt a nudge against the side of his spike’s head. Then another. It occurred to him that the mask might obscure Tarn’s vision. He’d seen Tarn push up his mask to drink a shot more than once, but he couldn’t remember if Tarn had picked up the glass before or after lifting the mask. He suspected before. He… 

Deathsaurus felt something moist on the underside of his spike head. Moist and soft. _Tarn’s tongue_. 

Tarn’s lips closed so gently around Deathsaurus’s spike that Deathsaurus wasn’t sure if his spike had passed his lips and properly entered his mouth or not until Tarn, ever so delicately, sucked. 

Deathsaurus’s hands curled into claws, gouging at the armrests of his throne. He was vaguely aware of curls of metal forming underneath his talons. He didn’t care. He could get his craftspeople to repair the damage tomorrow. He would _have_ to. But tonight… 

Tonight was for his virtuoso. 

Deathsaurus hissed and could not restrain the moan that escaped from between his teeth. Tarn dared to take the entire head of Deathsaurus’s spike between his lips and Deathsaurus mewled his approval. Deathsaurus had never dared think Tarn would do _this_ for him. 

Tarn had said at their first meeting that the mask did not come off. Deathsaurus had respected that boundary. It was not his place to ask Tarn to remove it. And he would not take unfair advantage of the power this game gave him. He would not pressure Tarn to do anything he wasn’t comfortable doing. 

But by Fortune, he’d been so long without receiving oral pleasure that he’d forgotten just how much he loved it. 

Initially, Deathsaurus had not expected his sex life to change just because he’d made an alliance with Tarn and the DJD. Typically one member of his crew or another would seek out intimacy after battle and Deathsaurus, like the typical MTO, would not deny them. Deathsaurus saw no need to make demands on Tarn that Tarn might not be willing to fulfill, not when there were plenty of other mechs happy to do those things with him. 

Except Tarn had very quickly taken a monopoly on Deathsaurus’s interest. Deathsaurus would have resented forced monogamy but Tarn never spoke about expectations for the relationship. Deathsaurus gently turned down the offers of his crew because his thoughts had focused on Tarn all of their own accord. 

It was Deathsaurus’s _fantasy_ that he and Tarn might be all the other needed, but he knew better than to expect an idle wish to come true. Deathsaurus was a realist. He had to enjoy what he could get while he had the chance. Everything in his life had an expiry date. 

So Deathsaurus had foregone this particular sort of pleasure. Sooner or later his little romance with Tarn would fall apart and then he could go back to his previous habits. In the meantime, Deathsaurus had done without rather than seek another lover. 

Now Tarn was willingly giving him what he’d sacrificed for so long. 

Deathsaurus mewled shamelessly. _Let_ Tarn know how much he liked it. Tarn _ought_ to know. “Oh, that’s good,” Deathsaurus said breathlessly. “Tarn…it’s so good.” 

Tarn dared to take his spike a little deeper in response. 

Deathsaurus expressed his gratitude with an inarticulate vocalization of animal appreciation. This…he’d fantasized about this for a long time. But… 

Deathsaurus took a peek downwards and saw the head of the Decepticon Justice Division on his knees, his mask pushed up on his forehead, his lips around Deathsaurus’s spike. 

Deathsaurus whimpered and almost overloaded simply from the sight of it. It was an image so erotic that it frayed his self-control to shreds. 

The soft pulse of Tarn’s lips as he sucked reminded Deathsaurus over and over again that this was no fantasy—it was actually happening to him. 

“I’m going to overload,” Deathsaurus panted, knowing it was inevitable, feeling that it was only right to warn his mate. “You’re…you just look too good…feel too good…I can’t….” 

Tarn’s only response was to curl his fingers into Deathsaurus’s thighs and pull Deathsaurus’s spike deeper into his mouth. So deep….yes. Deathsaurus saw Tarn choke a little. Tarn withdrew until his gag reflex subsided. 

“Careful,” Deathsaurus said, because the one thing that could kill his buzz was the thought of his partner in distress. “Don’t push yourself. You’re…you’re perfect as you are.” 

Tarn sucked a little harder in response. His tongue slathered moisture all over Deathsaurus’s spike. 

Deathsaurus moaned. His wings fluttered helplessly, lashing into the sides of the throne. His talons gripped the arms of the throne. His beast mode claws clicked and clattered. Tarn’s mouth felt like heaven. A heaven a beastformer MTO didn’t deserve. 

“My virtuoso,” Deathsaurus panted. 

By Fortune, but this felt like a miracle. 

Tarn’s hands moved from gently massaging Deathsaurus’s inner thighs to skating lightly over Deathsaurus’s valve panel. The panel, of course, snapped open instantly. Deathsaurus’s valve had been tingling with anticipation from the moment Tarn suggested they play. That little bit of additional stimulation was enough to shatter the little composure Deathsaurus had left. 

Deathsaurus overloaded forcefully. Tarn tightened his lips around Deathsaurus’s spike and swallowed down the charge. Deathsaurus felt Tarn’s fans blowing hot air against the moist, puffy lining of his exposed valve and came all the harder. By the time Deathsaurus’s frame stopped spasming, the warlord swore his talons were stuck in the material of his throne. He had to tug to pull them free. 

Tarn let Deathsaurus’s spike slip from his mouth. He knelt submissively at Deathsaurus’s feet and waited for Deathsaurus’s next order. 

Deathsaurus became very aware of his exposed valve. His frame resisted his commands to close his legs and sit up straight. He didn’t want to close his legs. He wanted… 

He wanted Tarn to kiss his valve. 

Deathsaurus clenched his jaw and vowed not to be greedy. His priority was to make sure his mate was all right. “Tarn?” Deathsaurus asked breathlessly. 

Tarn straightened up—though he still rested on his knees—and lowered his mask back into position. Deathsaurus got only the smallest glimpse of his chin as it lowered. 

Deathsaurus’s systems flared with want and greed. He wrestled the emotions back down. 

“Do I please you, my Lord?” Tarn said at last. 

“Oh yes,” Deathsaurus murmured. “Very much so.” He dared to reach out and pat Tarn on the head. Tarn leaned into the touch like an affectionate pet. 

Deathsaurus pitted his desire against his ethics. Desire won. Conditionally. 

“My virtuoso?” Deathsaurus inquired. 

“Yes, my Lord?” Tarn seemed eager to play. Deathsaurus would wonder if Tarn would stay so eager after he asked his next question. 

“Under what circumstances would you consider doing the same with my valve?” 

The implicit order was to answer the question, not perform the act. Deathsaurus’s conscience slumbered, sated in its belief that this was an acceptable request. 

“Ah.” Tarn’s response was unintelligible. 

Deathsaurus inhaled deeply. He couldn’t smell fear. Anxiousness, perhaps, but not fear. Not disgust either. 

“I,” Tarn began, but then he stopped. 

Deathsaurus’s conscience roused. Pricked him. Told him he was going too far again. 

“You don’t have to answer,” Deathsaurus said quickly. 

“Of course I do, my Lord.” Tarn’s skepticism was clear even under the mask. “And the answer is I will do it if you ask…though…I should warn you, my Lord…I have…precious little experience.” He wrung his hands. “I would hate to disappoint you.” 

Deathsaurus felt a bolt of hot arousal lance up his spinal strut. 

Dear Primus. As if he hadn’t been turned on before. 

His conscience stirred and glared at him meaningfully. 

_Right_ . The less experience Tarn had, the more work Deathsaurus had to do to be certain he wasn’t taking advantage. 

Deathsaurus straightened up, ignoring the pulse of protest coming from his valve when he closed his legs in order to lean forward in the chair. He slid his hand up under Tarn’s chin. “You’re far from disappointing,” Deathsaurus murmured. “To help you learn would be an honour. But only if you so desire.” 

“I want you,” Tarn blurted, all his usual eloquence gone. “I want to do things for you. To pleasure you. To serve you. I can be so good if only you’ll give me a chance.” 

Deathsaurus’s wings prickled. If this was a game, it felt terribly real. 

“Then promise me something.” 

“Anything, my Lord.” 

“Promise me you’ll stop if you’re not comfortable.” 

Tarn frowned in an expression of dismay. 

“Promise me, or this game ends.” Deathsaurus could not be flexible about matters of consent. His voice was commanding. Demanding. It had to be. 

Tarn shivered under his touch. “I promise, my Lord.” From the way he curled his hands over Deathsaurus’s knees, Deathsaurus guessed that shiver was not a bad thing. 

Deathsaurus shivered himself—with anticipation. 

“Will you instruct me, my Lord?” Tarn inquired. 

“I have a better idea.” Deathsaurus smiled, not bothering to restrain his hunger. “Why don’t you just touch me. Explore. Try things.” He ran his hand down the side of Tarn’s head. “I promise to tell you what I like.” 

Tarn whimpered. “Yes, my Lord.” 

_Greedy_ , said the voice in Deathsaurus’s head. 

There was only one response. 

_Yes. I am greedy. Turned on. Hungry. I’m not ashamed of any of that. Tarn will do what he feels comfortable doing and I’m going to enjoy whatever I get._

Deathsaurus felt his neural net prickle with anticipation. He shifted his weight closer to the front of the throne, the better to allow Tarn full access, and he opened his legs. 

Tarn bowed his head. He reached out and laid an index finger on Deathsaurus’s anterior node. Deathsaurus growled low in his throat, feeling his node pulse eagerly. 

Tarn shoved up his mask again. Deathsaurus saw Tarn lean against his arm and realized Tarn was using his arm to guide his lips to Deathsaurus’s valve. He really was blind with the mask raised, then. 

_Remember_ . Deathsaurus filed away this information in his memory banks. He wouldn’t waste time feeling guilty about angling for an advantage over Tarn in a moment like this. He couldn’t help his instincts. He took the opportunity, filed the data, and then let the thought fade. 

He’d rather think about where Tarn’s lips were going. 

Deathsaurus clutched the arms of his throne again. The air was cool on his overheated valve. His thighs trembled with anticipation. 

Part of him couldn’t believe this was really happening. He’d fantasized about it for so long. He’d convinced himself it would never happen. He wanted it so much. 

It didn’t feel real, now that it was moments away. 

Deathsaurus felt something. Not a touch, not yet. Just the gentle venting of air from Tarn’s nose as he drew near. Deathsaurus couldn’t guess what Tarn was thinking. All he knew was that his anterior node was swollen with anticipation, and his valve folds were moist with arousal. 

“Please,” Deathsaurus said, and his voice was raw with need. 

Tarn startled. Deathsaurus supposed that a patron should not entreat his virtuoso that way. But Deathsaurus didn’t care about the damned game any more. 

Tarn lifted his finger away from Deathsaurus’s node. 

Deathsaurus whined. He couldn’t see Tarn’s mouth. He wanted to, but the mask was blocking his view. Somehow just imagining Tarn’s lips coming near his anterior node made him whine deep in his throat. There was something about the way Tarn bowed his head. 

_Let me bow to please you._

Deathsaurus whimpered and clawed at his chair and prayed for the moist caress of Tarn’s tongue. 

Instead he felt something barely more than a whisper. Dry and soft. 

_Tarn’s lips._

Tarn’s lips tenderly kissing his valve. 

Deathsaurus dimmed his optics. Primus, but he wanted Tarn to lick him there. He gritted his teeth and told himself to be patient. He couldn’t rush Tarn. Couldn’t scare him off. 

_Live in the moment._

Deathsaurus vented deeply, inhaling Tarn’s scent. He smelled like gunpowder and that fancy polish Tarn kept in his washracks. Deathsaurus lit one of his optics, just enough to admire Tarn on his knees, his face between Deathsaurus’s thighs. 

Primus, but Tarn looked beautiful. 

Then Deathsaurus felt the soft, wet sweep of Tarn’s tongue over his anterior node. 

Heaven. 

Deathsaurus could never have anticipated this moment when he’d first heard the DJD announce their presence. Nor could he make himself believe his arrangement with Tarn could last. MTOs weren’t that lucky. 

But today, for right now, in this moment, Deathsaurus would dig in his talons and hang onto heaven with everything he had. 


	3. The Majordomo's Desire

Chapter Three: The Majordomo’s Desire 

Tarn really didn’t know what he was doing. Megatron had never let him anywhere near his valve. The subject was never even discussed. Tarn was with Megatron to serve him, and Megatron made clear what forms that service was to take. 

Subordinates pleased their superiors with hands and mouths and valves. Superiors might grant a caress in return, if they were generous. 

Tarn had applied these lessons to his other lovers. His pets. He hadn’t let them spike him, and he certainly hadn’t licked their valves. He hadn’t even let them lick his. His valve was reserved for Megatron. His spike was for fun with his playthings. 

This was the natural order of things, and Tarn was grateful for the certainty. It made Tarn feel more comfortable playing virtuoso and czar with Deathsaurus Tarn was secure in the knowledge that he knew how to please a mech on a throne. 

Until Deathsaurus made his strange request. 

Tarn had to face the truth. His new lover was a rakish libertine who clearly liked to frag in all manner of perverse ways. If Tarn wanted to please him, he’d have to follow along. 

Tarn realized he didn’t actually feel badly about that. It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable with the idea of eating out a valve. It was more that he didn’t know how. Megatron had never taught him. And the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division should not lower himself to pleasure a subordinate. 

Not on Cybertron, anyway. 

But this was the Rim, and the rules were different, and in this game Deathsaurus was his Lord and… 

…and Tarn wanted to. 

He had to admit he was curious what it would be like. What it would taste like. Deathsaurus certainly seemed to enjoy doing this for him. 

_There, you see? You’re not entirely ignorant. You know what Deathsaurus does to you…and you know how much you like it._

Tarn felt his cheeks heat at such a wanton thought. 

_So all you have to do is do it to him._

Tarn kissed Deathsaurus’s valve lips again. They were soft, softer than the lips around his mouth, and delicately moist. They tasted of sweet musk. Tarn had been afraid that a valve would be drippy—dirty—but this wasn’t so bad. 

He touched his tongue to Deathsaurus’s anterior node. A proper lick this time. A stroke of his tongue. 

Deathsaurus moaned. Loudly. 

Right, then, that was good. Tarn did it again. 

Deathsaurus’s engines revved. 

Tarn wondered if an anterior node was like a spike. Could he suck it? Would that feel good? 

Tarn raised his head, folded his lips around Deathsaurus’s node, and sucked it into his mouth. 

Deathsaurus gasped. 

Tarn sucked a little harder. He could do this! 

“Tarn,” Deathsaurus said breathlessly. 

“Mmm?” Tarn didn’t want to drop his mouthful to answer. 

“Will you…lick…” 

_Oh_ . Deathsaurus wanted more of the tongue application. Tarn released the node and licked at it instead. Deathsaurus cried out in pleasure, and Tarn felt a rush of satisfaction shoot straight up his spinal strut, setting his head spinning. _Yes_. He was pleasing his Lord and it made him feel good. 

Tarn should feel nervous, but instead he felt curious. Would Deathsaurus like it if he flicked the node back and forth with his tongue? Should he try swirling it in a circle? Or maybe he should lick it from tip to base instead? He ought to be afraid of doing it wrong. But experimenting could be fun. It would certainly be interesting. 

So he experimented. 

My, there were so many interesting things to discover. Circles were fun, but once Deathsaurus got into it, he really seemed to like a good firm lengthwise lick. Sucking was a lovely way to tease and make Deathsaurus ask for more. Tarn was a little nervous about putting his tongue into Deathsaurus’s valve, but Deathsaurus didn’t ask for that. Tarn had no sooner found a nice rhythm than Deathsaurus said, “Yeah…do that…please!” 

Silly Deathsaurus. There was no need to soften his demands by making them into requests. Tarn was very happy to obey. 

“More,” Deathsaurus panted. “Please…don’t stop.” 

Tarn didn’t. Not when Deathsaurus’s ventilations grew fast and shallow. Not when Deathsaurus arched his back and Tarn had to catch him under the thighs with his hands to keep his node within tongue’s reach. Not even when Deathsaurus cried out on his throne in a roar so loud it was a wonder the whole Warworld didn’t hear. 

Tarn didn’t relent until Deathsaurus sagged in his grip. Then he lowered his head and gently kissed Deathsaurus’s valve lips again. 

Tarn wondered if Deathsaurus was satisfied. Somehow, he doubted it. But nobody’s node could stand constant stimulation. 

So Tarn licked delicately around the inside of Deathsaurus’s valve lips. He could taste lubricant, but the flavour wasn’t overwhelming. This would do while Deathsaurus’s node had a rest. 

“Tarn, you’re wonderful,” Deathsaurus purred. “It feels so good.” 

_You haven’t seen anything yet_ , Tarn thought. Emboldened, he licked Deathsaurus’s anterior node again. 

Deathsaurus cried out in surprise and pleasure. 

Tarn used his fingers to gently open Deathsaurus’s valve. He licked Deathsaurus long and deep, from the back of his valve to the tip of his anterior node. It got pretty wet, but most of those fluids were Tarn’s own oral lubricant. And if there was the slightest trace of a wild musk, a smoky oil…well…this _was_ Deathsaurus he was licking. 

Deathsaurus squirmed. Tarn held him down firmly and flicked his node. 

“Oh, Primus,” Deathsaurus whimpered. “ _Please_.” 

It wasn’t appropriate for a master to beg his servant, but Tarn wasn’t worried. Tarn wouldn’t keep his master waiting. 

The feeling Tarn felt when he found that rhythm again—the one where the motions of his tongue matched the movement of Deathsaurus’s hips—the feeling was not one of power over Deathsaurus, nor of security in his ability to earn his Lord’s good regard. It was a strange warmth that came solely from knowing they were both enjoying themselves. 

Tarn’s jaw started to ache. He held still to flex it, but he left his tongue out. Deathsaurus’s pumping hips slid his anterior node up and down Tarn’s tongue. Tarn marvelled at the thought. 

Deathsaurus made a hungry sound. He wanted more stimulation. 

Tarn was happy to provide it. He returned to the rhythm, and if his jaw hurt, well, what was a little suffering in the service of his czar in onyx? 

By Fortune, but the _noises_ Deathsaurus made. He clearly loved what Tarn was doing to him, and he wasn’t ashamed to show it. Deathsaurus probably wouldn’t be ashamed if the entire Warworld saw. He’d just wink at them and flash them a big dirty smile, as if to say _look what I’ve got._

_And I’m not sharing._

Deathsaurus was never possessive, though Tarn wished he would be. Tarn allowed himself the fantasy anyway. Deathsaurus, his czar in onyx, claiming Tarn all for his own. 

Tarn imagined Deathsaurus speaking to him. 

_You’re far too good for me to ever let you go_ , fantasy-Deathsaurus said. _I’ll put you to work licking me out every night and then I’ll frag your tight little valve until you scream. I suppose I’ll let you sleep in my berth. You’ll be far too exhausted to leave it…_

Tarn whimpered into Deathsaurus’s valve as his fans came on, blasting hot air against Deathsaurus’s thighs. He could feel his _own_ valve getting wet. 

Megatron had never let him stay the night in his Lord’s berth. 

Tarn swore he’d do anything… _anything_ …to keep Deathsaurus’s good regard. He didn’t want to think about responsibility or dignity or his reputation. He wanted to think about Deathsaurus wanting _him_. He’d be so good to Deathsaurus that Deathsaurus would never let him go. 

“Don’t stop!” Deathsaurus cried. 

Tarn shook off his thoughts and reapplied himself, licking Deathsaurus’s valve in hard, fast strokes. He felt his engines purring with arousal. Evidently Deathsaurus felt it too, because his hips pumped faster and his thighs quivered with pent-up tension. 

“Ah…ah…” Deathsaurus said. 

Tarn licked. Everything for his Lord. 

Deathsaurus overloaded again in a crackle of electricity that went zinging through his frame and into Tarn’s. Tarn swore he felt a mini-climax of his own—a sudden rush and then relaxation of his frame. He kept licking through Deathsaurus’s overload until he felt his Lord squirm under his touch. That was how he knew that Deathsaurus was oversensitized—done. 

Tarn withdrew, folding his hands in his lap and bowing his head. 

“You really are something special,” Deathsaurus murmured. 

Tarn felt his spark glow. How long had it been since he felt this secure? This _contented_. 

The only thing that needed to happen now was for Deathsaurus to frag him. Claim him. Make him _his_. Dig his claws into his hips, bite down hard on his tank tracks. Leave marks that everyone would see. So everyone would know who Tarn belonged to. 

Primus, but he couldn’t wait. His valve was already so wet. 

“My Lord,” Tarn breathed. “I await your command.” 

But Deathsaurus didn’t command him. Tarn heard only a soft slide of metal. He couldn’t begin to guess what had made that sound. He raised his hands to his mask, lowering it back into position so he could see for himself. He’d barely closed it when he saw Deathsaurus kneeling right next to him, and then he felt Deathsaurus’s arms close around his chest. 

Deathsaurus held him near, not too tightly, but firmly. _Securely_. He was looking at him with a warm, if slightly dazed, smile. “Thank you,” Deathsaurus whispered. “Thank you so much.” 

_Thank you._

Megatron had never said _thank you_. Megatron had simply accepted Tarn’s veneration as his due. After Megatron had enjoyed his pleasure, he always rose to his feet and went back about his business. If Tarn was lucky, sometimes he got a pat on the head or a clap on the shoulder. If Tarn was _very_ lucky, he would be told when to report to Megatron’s berth. 

So Tarn was rather at a loss to be enveloped in Deathsaurus’s arms and wings, to be held close and told _thank you_. He was just doing his job, wasn’t he? He was here for his Lord’s pleasure. 

But Deathsaurus’s frame felt good—warm and supportive—and Deathsaurus’s warm regard felt even better. Tarn gingerly slid his hands up under the roots of Deathsaurus’s wings, hoping it wasn’t too presumptuous to hug back. 

Deathsaurus purred. 

That felt good. Tarn held Deathsaurus, and as he did, a realization dawned. 

Tarn wasn’t Deathsaurus’s servant, not really. Virtuoso and patron was a game. In reality, they were allies. Partners. 

_Equals._

Feeling more confident, Tarn dared add a little pressure to his embrace, hugging Deathsaurus to him. 

Deathsaurus purred very loudly and kissed his neck, his throat. 

Ah, so that was good, then. Tarn was glad. This _equals_ business was bizarre, but it had advantages of its own. He and Deathsaurus holding one another, sharing mutual pleasure…he liked it more than he’d ever dreamed possible. 

Tarn dimmed his optics and rested his cheek against Deathsaurus’s shoulder. For an instant he resented the presence of the mask. He was sorely tempted to shove it back up and enjoy the sensation of Deathsaurus’s shoulder against his bare cheek. But he hesitated, because he wasn’t sure he could bear such a strong sensation. 

Besides, if he pushed the mask up now, who knew where it might lead? Uninhibited kissing? Perhaps taking the mask off entirely? 

No, he’d already taken several big steps outside his comfort zone today. Tarn set the idea aside for now. Still, he was keenly aware that _set aside_ did not mean _rule out_. He would be revisiting that notion again later. He felt as though there were an entire world of possibilities out there than he could explore…as long as he had Deathsaurus with him. 

“What would you like now?” Deathsaurus murmured as he released Tarn from his embrace. 

Tarn’s head spun anew with a sensation of disorientation. He was not used to being _asked._ He was usually either _told_ or _telling_ , depending on whether or not his partner was Megatron. “I’m here to serve you, my Lord,” Tarn said cautiously. 

“Still playing, are we?” Deathsaurus licked at Tarn’s neck. 

In all honesty, Tarn wasn’t sure if he was playing or not. Part of him wanted to belong to Deathsaurus in reality, not just in pretend. But another part of him… 

Another part of him was just discovering a very powerful appeal in being Deathsaurus’s equal. 

And, of course, a third part goaded him with reminders that he was the Emperor in Megatron’s stead, and that he ought to keep this uppity beast of his firmly in its place. 

That third part was losing ground, but Tarn still hedged his bets. “I would like to, my czar,” Tarn replied. The fiction of the game made it so much easier for him to talk about what he wanted. 

Deathsaurus drew back so he could look Tarn in the optics. He had his _I’m very pleased with myself_ smile on. “Then you should tell me if it’s more appropriate for me to take my virtuoso back to my berth so I can have my wicked way with him…” Deathsaurus’s optics glittered. “Or whether I should let him brace his arms on the seat of my throne while I…” Deathsaurus leaned closer. “While I let myself act like the beast I am.” 

Tarn caught his breath. He knew what Deathsaurus was doing. He’d found a way to play the czar while still putting choice in Tarn’s hands. Tarn admired Deathsaurus’s cleverness even though—maybe _because_ —it made controlling him difficult. 

It would be the easiest thing in the world for Tarn to pick the first option. Deathsaurus knew that Tarn liked a soft berth; they’d interfaced that way often. It would be comforting and familiar after Tarn’s daring venture outside his comfort zone. 

But Tarn found himself very curious about the other option. “The—the second,” he said, with a tremor in his voice. 

Deathsaurus chuckled. “My,” he murmured, placing his lips next to Tarn’s audio. “Aren’t you a wanton little thing.” 

Tarn had not been a _little thing_ in millions of years, but he couldn’t help the way his knees went weak. “Take your pleasure of me, my Lord.” 

Deathsaurus smiled a big, satisfied smile. His optics sparkled wickedly. “Assume the position.” 

Tarn’s fuel pump pounded in his chest as he did Deathsaurus’s bidding. Primus, but he wanted this. He felt euphoric as he rested his elbows on the seat of the throne and Deathsaurus wasn’t even touching him yet. His self-control was in tatters. Tarn knew he’d do anything Deathsaurus asked of him. 

He canted his aft up into the air and whimpered at the thought of what he must look like. The head of the DJD, so submissive. So sexually enticing. So in need of a good hard fragging. 

“Open your panel. Let me see you.” 

Tarn moaned with arousal as he obeyed. He felt lubricant sliding down his inner thigh as he opened his valve panel. He was already so wet. Just the way he knew Deathsaurus liked him. 

“By Fortune, you’re beautiful.” 

Deathsaurus so rarely complimented him on his appearance. Tarn felt his spark glow. 

“Oh, I wish you could see yourself.” 

“My Lord…are you reading my mind?” 

Deathsaurus chuckled. “ _Really_. Well then. Perhaps next time we’ll get a camera. You can watch yourself afterwards. You can see how you’re really too delicious for me to turn down.” 

Tarn whined. The idea was so erotic it ought to be illegal. 

“In the meantime…” Tarn could feel Deathsaurus looming over him. “Today will be our little secret. Something private just for us.” 

Tarn heard the sound of transformation behind him. 

Tarn felt his spark clench in fear, even as his valve dripped with anticipation. Tarn wondered if Deathsaurus would frag him in his alt mode. Really, that would be a step too far. Tarn wasn’t ready for something like that. But he found himself utterly unable to voice it. If Deathsaurus tried… Tarn would let him. 

It would be so much easier to take all choice out of his hands. Take it away. Give it to Deathsaurus. 

He would be frightened. But he would come for his Lord anyway. 

Tarn dimmed his optics and pressed his forehead to his Czar in Onyx’s throne and waited. 

Tarn gasped as he felt something unexpected. Instead of Deathsaurus’s spike piercing his valve, he felt something cool and wet sliding over his overheated valve. 

Oh! There it was again. Generously wet, smearing moisture everywhere. Soft and gentle. It felt so good as it moved through his swollen folds. 

“Deathsaurus,” Tarn panted. 

“Don’t be frightened,” the creature crooned. 

The moist thing came back, licking a tantalizing circle around the rim of his valve, and then slowly pushing inside. 

Tarn whimpered as Deathsaurus’s tongue penetrated him. He felt the horn on top of Deathsaurus’s beak pressing gently but firmly against the back of his valve while his tongue plunged deep inside it. Tarn’s fuel pump hammered madly as he tried to convince himself that everything was all right. Deathsaurus had done this before—licked him out in his alt mode. If it was wrong, well, at least it wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before. 

But it felt so _right_. 

Tarn loved how indecently long Deathsaurus’s tongue was in this shape. The tongue rasped over all his sensitive interior nodes, licking his entire valve, tasting him everywhere. Deathsaurus drew his tongue out long enough to flick Tarn’s anterior node with its tip, making Tarn cry out, before he slid it back inside. 

“You….you don’t have to do this,” Tarn panted. 

“But you love it,” Deathsaurus observed mildly the next time his tongue withdrew. “Will you trust me to try something?” 

Tarn felt his spark clench. He bit his tongue until he tasted energon from his own lines. 

Then he took a deep breath. Deathsaurus had instructed him to speak up if he felt uncomfortable. It would be disobedient not to. 

“I’m not sure I’m ready to…to interface with you in this form.” Tarn had no sooner said it then he felt ashamed. He had no right to boundaries. He was his Lord’s servant…no. He was his czar in onyx’s slave. 

“Not at all?” Deathsaurus inquired. “Shall I stop?” 

“I mean…not your spike.” Tarn wasn’t going to get squeamish about claws and tongues and such now. He’d already let the beast lick him out. Claws wouldn’t be that much different from fingers. 

Deathsaurus nuzzled Tarn’s side. “That’s all right. I won’t use my spike. I actually had a different idea. Would you like me to explain it?” 

Tarn bit his lip. He still felt as though he’d failed Deathsaurus by voicing his fear. 

“Just do it,” Tarn said, because that was the right answer, except then terror tickled his spark and spurred his next words. “You’ll—you’ll stop if I ask, won’t you?” 

“I promise.” 

“My Lord,” Tarn whispered. “I’m yours.” 

Tarn waited, wondering what Deathsaurus might have in mind, but he didn’t have to wait for long. 

For those brief moments, Tarn could feel cool air against his overheated valve. A trickle of lubricant slipped slowly down his left valve lip. At first he wondered whether he’d feel Deathsaurus’s claw delicately tickling his node, or perhaps his tongue again. Maybe Deathsaurus would mount him but not use his spike. Maybe he’d just rub his spike against the outside of Tarn’s valve. 

Tarn realized that he trusted Deathsaurus, utterly, to not spike him. 

A moment later, Tarn realized that he didn’t care what Deathsaurus did, as long as he did it _fast_. Tarn’s valve calipers fluttered in an attempt to grasp emptiness. His valve lips were so hot they hurt. Lust burned away Tarn’s reservations, leaving him smouldering with need. 

Deathsaurus moved against him. Tarn felt the beast’s claws curling around his tank tracks. 

No claws in his valve, then. No _tongue_. What torment was this? What thanks was this for a devoted servant? Tarn was on the verge of forgetting his place and snapping at Deathsaurus when he felt something move against his valve. 

_A spike_ ? 

No. It was long and sinuous, curling around Tarn’s upper right thigh like a snake. It squeezed gently. 

Something flicked Tarn’s anterior node. 

Tarn cried out. 

Emboldened, the thing flicked again. Tarn moaned. Deathsaurus’s claws dug deeper into his tank tracks. 

Tarn felt a quick slithering over his thigh. The pressure vanished. 

Then something slid between the lips of his valve. 

Tarn moaned. By Fortune, it felt good. Tarn canted his hips, moving against whatever was in his valve. It felt warm and flexible and firm, a lovely shape, and Tarn leaned back into it, taking it deeper inside. He realized a moment later what it was. 

“Oh, Primus,” Tarn moaned. “It’s your _tail_.” 

So bad. So _good_. 

“Tell me you don’t love it, and I’ll stop,” Deathsaurus said. 

An impossibility. 

“I do,” Tarn whimpered, and it sounded like a confession. “Primus help me, but I do. I love it, my Lord.” 

_I love you._

Tarn couldn’t say that. Didn’t dare. 

Tarn thought about what that imaginary camera would be recording right now. Tarn on his knees, bent over Deathsaurus’s throne. Deathsaurus mounting him like a beast. Like both of them were beasts. Deathsaurus’s tail plunging again and again into Tarn’s waiting valve. 

_So much for leading the Decepticon Justice Division. Your only job now, little virtuoso, is to fuck._

Tarn whimpered. 

Primus help him. It was all he wanted. 


	4. The Majordomo's Master

Chapter Four: The Majordomo’s Master 

Deathsaurus didn’t really know what he was doing. Not the business with his tail—he’d done that before, and his partners had enjoyed it—but with the choice to push Tarn this far. 

_A few minutes ago Tarn was eating you out and you were wondering how you could be so lucky and were you happy with that? No, of course not. You had to see if he’d accept you in your creature mode. You know he doesn’t like this shape of yours._

_Can’t you ever be satisfied with enough?_

_Like back on Cybertron. You_ could _have stayed a unit commander and kept your head down and protected your crew and sent Megatron some faked casualty reports to hide the fact that you prioritized your people over your mission a few too many times. But did you? No, of course not. You kept taking in more soldiers. Accepting more promotions. Winning more battles. Ended up a warlord where you couldn’t stay under the radar any more. And when that happened you had no choice but to desert._

Getting away with it really wasn’t a good counterargument. 

Deathsaurus almost laughed when he realized his _old_ counterargument— _now you have the DJD after you and it’s not going to end well_ —was null and void, considering that Tarn was at this very moment whimpering under him, with Deathsaurus’s tail embedded in his wet, tender valve. 

_See? Tarn isn’t complaining._

_Make the most of this moment. When it all falls apart, you’ll regret it if you didn’t._

Deathsaurus preferred to live his life with no regrets. 

He wiggled the tip of his tail against one of Tarn’s interior nodes, making Tarn moan louder. Tarn shifted under him, but he wasn’t trying to get away. He was trying to thrust in counterpoint to Deathsaurus, to drive the tail deeper. 

“Do you want more?” Deathsaurus murmured in Tarn’s audio. 

“Yes, my Czar,” Tarn panted. “Please.” 

Who was Deathsaurus to deny Tarn when he asked so nicely? 

Deathsaurus pulled his tail out, causing Tarn to mewl, but then he slid it back in, a little deeper. Out, and in a little bit more. Out again, and in again, ever so slightly further. 

“You’re doing so well,” Deathsaurus murmured as Tarn’s valve swallowed up his tail. Tarn’s calipers fluttered against him, trying to pull his tail deeper still. Tarn moaned. 

_You really get off on praise, don’t you?_ Deathsaurus marveled at Tarn’s reaction to his words. It seemed odd to Deathsaurus that a mech who made his living from judging others was so eager to be judged himself. 

Judged, and found satisfactory. Tarn thirsted for praise. 

Deathsaurus wasn’t particularly interested in anyone else’s judgment of him, but he was starting to learn that _what would you like yourself_ wasn’t always the best guideline for dealing with Tarn. He and Tarn had very different tastes. Tarn valued pretty words and showy gestures a lot more than Deathsaurus did. 

Instead of giving Tarn what Deathsaurus wanted for himself…he would give Tarn what _Tarn_ wanted. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Deathsaurus whispered. “I wish you could see yourself. I wish you could see how lovely your valve looks wrapped around my tail.” 

Tarn, so famous for weaponized conversation, was in a place beyond words. He made loud _sounds_ that clearly expressed his pleasure, but they weren’t really speech. Deathsaurus didn’t mind. He knew what Tarn meant. 

“I’m so glad you let me try this. You’re so brave. So _hot_.” Deathsaurus flicked his tail-tip. “You’re doing so _well_. Such a prize, my virtuoso.” 

Tarn warbled in arousal and pleasure. 

“Do you know?” Deathsaurus murmured, licking at Tarn’s audio in between sentences. “Do you know how good your warm, sturdy frame feels beneath mine? Do you know how strongly your hips thrust back to take me so very deep inside you? Do you know how much I love to listen to that voice of yours… _particularly_ when you’re beyond speech.” 

Tarn’s valve was so wet. Deathsaurus wondered if Tarn could feel Deathsaurus’s tail well enough through that copious fluid. Tarn was still leaning his weight back against Deathsaurus, but Deathsaurus wasn’t sure if he was savouring pleasure or desperately seeking stimulation that was no longer enough. 

Deathsaurus dared shove his tail as deep as he could and tickled his tail-tip, questing for Tarn’s upload jack buried deep in his port. 

Tarn keened. 

“Oh, right there,” Deathsaurus observed. “That’s where you love it best.” 

“My Lord!” Tarn cried out, and overload took him. 

Deathsaurus dug in his talons and held on tight. He wasn’t sure if Tarn would be angry about obvious claw marks on his tank tracks, but that was a problem for later. Right now he wasn’t letting Tarn go until his lover was thoroughly satisfied. Deathsaurus plunged his tail deep into his mate, over and over, while his talons clutched Tarn’s frame against his. 

For Deathsaurus, it wasn’t quite the same as an overload. The feeling wasn’t as intense as when Tarn had been licking him out. Still, he enjoyed this unique pleasure for what it was. Part of his enjoyment was in feeling Tarn’s hips slamming back against his spike panel. Deathsaurus’s creature mode had its own spike, and while his robot mode’s spike was quite contented from the oral attention it had received, his creature mode spike hadn’t seen any action for a very long time. Just the pressure against the panel felt exciting. 

Another part of it was feeling Tarn’s arousal rise and peak. Deathsaurus played Tarn’s frame to make him hotter, wetter, more and more turned on. Deathsaurus fed his partner’s hunger, found the things that gave him pleasure, and brought him to completion. All the while, Deathsaurus imagined how it felt to Tarn, until his own pleasure was an echo of Tarn’s, and Deathsaurus knew that he would also feel release when Tarn was satisfied. 

So Deathsaurus kept up the pace, prolonging Tarn’s overload. When Tarn’s elbows gave out and he slid down onto his lower arms, face to the ground, aft up in the air, Deathsaurus followed him down, bending low over him, licking the nape of his neck as his tail pounded into him. Tarn writhed under him, stammering on his name. 

“Deathsaurus” really was a mouthful at a time like this. 

“Des!” Tarn exclaimed, and then a cry took the rest of his words. 

It was not, quite, Deathsaurus’s original name. But it sounded close enough that it wound Deathsaurus up just a little further. He felt a rush that might have been an overload of his own, and he let euphoria wash away his reason as he sank his teeth into the nape of Tarn’s neck. 

_Claiming my mate._

Tarn screamed, and Deathsaurus suddenly realized what he’d done. He yanked his teeth free, and his claws for good measure, but then he realized that Tarn’s scream wasn’t one of pain but one of sublime ecstasy. 

Still, Deathsaurus felt guilty as he lapped up the energon that trickled from his bite. He furled his wings over Tarn’s body, trapping the warmth from Tarn’s overload next to their frames. He let his tail go limp. Tarn’s calipers squeezed on it a few times and then began a tight rippling motion that naturally pushed the tail out of Tarn’s valve. 

Deathsaurus wanted to hold Tarn tight, but he supposed that having most of his frame on top of Tarn’s might not be the best way to go about it. Tarn would definitely have trouble getting up with a big creature on top of him. 

So Deathsaurus rose up off of Tarn, and just for good measure, transformed back to his robot mode. 

Tarn still didn’t move. He stayed facedown on the floor, aft in the air, lubricant staining his thighs. He shuddered. His breath rasped, but he made no other sound. 

Deathsaurus felt a bolt of fear lance his spark. 

“Tarn?” He circled his mate, but he couldn’t see Tarn’s expression. Tarn had his forehead pressed to the floor, hiding even his optics from Deathsaurus’s view. Deathsaurus tried to read his mood by scent, but all Deathsaurus could smell was interfacing lubricants and hot engines. 

Fear latched onto Deathsaurus’s spark with needle teeth and held on tight. 

_No. I didn’t hurt him._

_I didn’t push him too far._

_I’m not a monster._

His conscience lashed his spark. He amended. 

_I_ am _a monster but…I never meant to do_ that _._

“Tarn.” Deathsaurus’s voice crackled with need. He knelt before his lover, facing him. “Answer me.” 

“Am I dismissed?” Tarn whispered, still facedown. 

Deathsaurus felt panic dumping adrenaloids into his systems. He fought down the urge to leap into action. Not before he knew what form that action should take. 

But he knew what he’d done. Deathsaurus was always _too much_ —too loud, too aggressive, too headstrong, too pushy, too feral…more than most people wanted to handle. He struggled, and often failed, to find the line between muzzling himself and alienating others. And while he ordinarily didn’t care what other people thought, the last thing he wanted was to upset the mech he liked. 

_You pushed him too far, and now he can’t wait to get away from you._

_Monster._

Deathsaurus steeled his nerves. 

_Don’t jump to conclusions. He doesn’t think like we do on the Rim. Ask. Ask him. Be sure._

“You want to leave?” Deathsaurus said, and he didn’t bother hiding his dismay. 

Tarn said nothing. 

Deathsaurus felt his spark leap as he thought of another possibility. “Or is this how you’re telling me, in character, that our game is over?” 

Tarn lifted his head. His expression behind the mask was unreadable. He spoke quietly. “You’ve had what you wanted from me—right?” 

Deathsaurus’s optics flickered with confusion. “Are you saying you’re busy? Have work to do?” 

“No, I…” 

Deathsaurus waited. 

“What more could you possibly want?” Tarn asked as he raised himself up on his knees. 

Deathsaurus tilted his head. “First, I want to make sure you’re okay. That…that got a little intense.” 

Tarn took a deep breath into his vents. “I’m all right.” 

“I’m glad. I…I was hoping we could spend the evening together.” Deathsaurus gritted his teeth. He probably sounded stupid. Or crude. How did they deliver invitations in Old Vos? “Hang out, you know.” 

Tarn’s optics flickered. “You want to _hang out_.” 

He said it as though there were something wrong with it. Deathsaurus was taken aback. “Why not? Is there a problem?” He clicked his beast claws in agitation. “If you don’t want to, you should just tell me.” 

“I want to,” Tarn said quickly. “I suppose I just…I just don’t understand what you could possibly get out of it. You don’t need to charm me into interfacing with you. You already had that.” He hung his head. “Surely you know you can have me whenever you like.” 

“Oh,” Deathsaurus said, finally understanding. He caught Tarn’s chin in his fingers and lifted it until their optics met. “Well, I want to for two reasons. First, as I said, to make sure you’re okay. Second, because I like you and want to spend time with you. It’s not just…not just about interfacing all the time. I like _you_.” 

Tarn was silent again. 

Deathsaurus wasn’t sure what Tarn was thinking. A moment later he guessed that Tarn had sensed a partial truth—a lie by omission that Deathsaurus didn’t even realize he’d told until just now. Either that, or Tarn had been shocked speechless. Deathsaurus decided the lie was more likely. 

“Fine. There’s a third reason,” Deathsaurus admitted as he released Tarn’s chin. He resisted the urge to furl his wings around his face to hide himself. “We went pretty far and I want to make sure you still like me, after that.” 

“Oh, Deathsaurus,” Tarn murmured. “You put me where you wanted me and now you worry what I think of it?” 

Tarn reached up his hand and lightly touched Deathsaurus’s cheek. Deathsaurus wasn’t quite sure what was happening. Tarn seemed affectionate, though, and that was all Deathsaurus really cared about right now. 

“I’m not used to a czar who has his pleasure and then _stays_ ,” Tarn said. 

All of a sudden Deathsaurus understood. Tarn was talking about Megatron. 

Master strategist? Deathsaurus was now convinced that Megatron was borderline insane. Throwing away MTOs was one thing. Discarding a loyal heart like this? 

_Lunacy_ . 

Deathsaurus wouldn’t dignify Megatron by mentioning his name. Instead he folded his wings around Tarn. “I’ll stay as long as you want me to,” he murmured in Tarn’s audio. 


	5. Epilogue:  Strange Bedfellows

Epilogue: Strange Bedfellows 

When this day began, Tarn would never have imagined that he’d end up here: lying on his belly in his own berth. A most undignified position, really, but as he snuggled close to Deathsaurus he admitted that it did have its appeal. For example, he and Deathsaurus could relax and cuddle while they watched a Goldensword operetta. 

They’d gone to Tarn’s wash station, and they’d been content simply to clean each other and rub wax into each other’s frames. They’d set up Tarn’s holoscreen against the wall, facing the berth. Now they were nestled up under Tarn’s soft chamois bedding, listening to the operetta on Tarn’s state-of-the-art sound system. 

Tarn hadn’t seen this particular operetta before, and the music was excellent, but he kept stealing glances at Deathsaurus anyway. Deathsaurus was watching the screen with a big grin on his face, totally wrapped up in the show. 

Tarn had seen only a handful of Goldensword operettas, very early in his life, before he learned that the mechs at the Vosian Opera hated them. The character Goldensword appealed to the common sort, they said, and the plots were silly and the humour was immature and the music was played _everywhere_ , overexposed beyond _belief_ , and Goldensword operettas _might_ have had some merit when Silversmith wrote the _first_ few, but now all manner of composers were writing them and the continuity was a mess and _really_ , Damus, you’d do better listening to _anything_ else. 

Tarn had immediately felt badly for liking the “wrong” thing, and that had been the end of Goldensword operettas for him. Right up until he’d taken up with Deathsaurus and needed to find something they’d both like to watch. Deathsaurus didn’t have the background to understand the denser, more experimental stage performances, and he couldn’t speak Old Cybertronian, so anything in that language was out. Tarn, meanwhile, was horrified by the latest popular show on the Warworld: something called “Skidplate and Arse,” which starred a Cybertronian and an organic creature of some sort jaunting about the galaxy attempting stupid stunts, each more purile, ridiculous and foolish than the last. Desperately, Tarn had tried to think of something he and Deathsaurus both might like and he remembered Goldensword. 

Goldensword operettas had plenty of sword fights and acrobatics and choreographed action. They also had a lot of physical humour, wordplay, and jokes. The character Goldensword was a master with a blade and a bow, but he usually won his victories by outsmarting his foes. The stories were funny, exciting, and easy to follow, and the music was catchy. There were reasons Goldensword operettas were popular even in Tarn and Kaon. 

Tarn suddenly realized that _popularity among the uneducated classes_ was probably reason enough for the Vosian elite to hate Goldensword operettas. It had nothing to do with their merits. 

Of which, Tarn discovered, there were many. Really, the music was quite good, and it was surprising how many excellent actors had signed up to play the popular character and his friends—and foes. 

Deathsaurus had looked skeptical when Tarn had asked him to watch the first one, but he’d agreed to try it, and before long he was laughing out loud at the antics of Goldensword’s friends. Tarn had been surprised that he’d enjoyed it too. Now the two of them were seeking out as many versions of Goldensword operettas that they could find and watching them together. 

_So this is your life now_ , Tarn mused. _You have weird sex with him in his throne room and then you come back to the_ Peaceful Tyranny _, clean yourselves up, cuddle up in bed, and watch Goldensword operettas._

It didn’t feel right. It felt…what was the word? Banal? No. 

_Normal_ was closer. 

This situation wasn’t normal yet, but Tarn realized that it could very easily become so. He could spend the rest of his life this way, on the Warworld, side-by-side with Deathsaurus. Or perhaps he could persuade Deathsaurus to settle down on one of those worlds he’d cyberformed. Somewhere with a warm climate and pretty landscapes. 

For a moment, Tarn hoped that they’d _never_ find Megatron. 

An instant later Tarn felt guilty. He had a mission for the Decepticon people. Punishment to deliver. Punishment that was long past due. 

But… 

_You can have a life after Megatron. If you want to._

Deathsaurus glanced at him. “This one’s no good, huh?” 

“What?” Tarn startled, coming out of his reverie. 

“You’re distracted. Is this a bad one? Rotten choreography or something?” 

Tarn glanced at the screen. “Oh. That fellow in the back left is a little out of step…no, this isn’t so bad. I was just…just thinking.” 

“About?” 

Lying came so easily. But this time, Tarn chose to tell the truth. 

“What’s normal. Between two lovers.” He gestured, taking in Deathsaurus, the berth, the room. “Is this normal?” 

“Who the hell cares?” Deathsaurus reached over and took Tarn’s hand. “Or rather…more importantly…would you like it to be? Our normal?” 

“Deathsaurus.” Tarn felt embarrassed again. Embarrassed and flustered. “Are you asking me to court you?” 

“No.” 

Tarn couldn’t help but feel disappointed. 

Deathsaurus cocked his head in that _interested predator_ gesture that was instinctive to him. “Are you suggesting you’d want me to?” 

_Yes_ . But Tarn couldn’t make the word leave his mouth. He was suddenly Damus again, tongue-tied and shy, while Deathsaurus watched him with a devastating smile on his lips. 

“Heh,” Deathsaurus said, and Tarn felt that same familiar mingling of relief and panic. Relief, because Deathsaurus was giving in and going away. Panic, because Tarn couldn’t say the words he wanted to say to keep him. 

“It’s too soon, isn’t it?” Deathsaurus said. But Tarn was bewildered when Deathsaurus took Tarn’s hand and wove their fingers together. “I’ve already pushed you far enough for one day.” 

“I…” Suddenly, Tarn realized that Deathsaurus had a point. _How_ often had Tarn thought about Megatron today? Entirely too often. Was this…what had Helex called it? A _rebound_? 

Tarn didn’t think so, not in the sense that he understood the term, anyway. But a lingering doubt remained. Until he was _sure_ he didn’t like Deathsaurus just because he was desperate for a new Emperor to replace the old…until he was _certain_ , maybe they shouldn’t. 

Tarn squeezed Deathsaurus’s hand gently. Deathsaurus squeezed back. 

“Do you think you would? Someday?” Tarn blurted. 

“You mean after this becomes our new normal?” Deathsaurus’s mouth curved into an easy smile, but his gaze was sharp and strong. 

“Yes.” Surely by then Tarn would know if these feelings were trustworthy. Surely some day he would be certain. 

“I suppose that would be the wise thing to do,” Deathsaurus said. “In the meantime, forgive me if I live in the moment just a little.” 

Deathsaurus leaned forward and kissed Tarn’s throat. 

Oh, and Tarn wanted to push his mask up again and kiss Deathsaurus properly. Wanted it so much, particularly when Deathsaurus kissed his way up to the slit in the mask and slipped his tongue through the gap to brush gently against Tarn’s. But right here, right now, it still felt a little too intimate. A step too far. 

Tarn felt shaken. He didn’t realize he was squeezing Deathsaurus’s hand again until Deathsaurus squeezed back. Deathsaurus’s touch felt comforting. Reassuring. 

_I’m still here with you. I’ll wait for you to be ready._

_And if you’re never ready, I’ll be with you still._

Tarn had no words to thank Deathsaurus for his steadfast affection. All he could do was part his lips and touch Deathsaurus’s tongue with his own, and hope Deathsaurus understood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's supported this ship and followed them this far! I'll be picking "Duet" back up and the story will continue from there.


End file.
